


astra inclinant, sed non obligant

by elizajumel



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajumel/pseuds/elizajumel
Summary: “None of the heroes were happy.” “Good thing we have no such pretensions.” [The stars incline us, they do not bind us.]
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	astra inclinant, sed non obligant

Alexander is all angles, too skinny, eyes too bright; has run himself raw with the wait.

His hands are pushing and impatient, and the dark-eyed man indulges him. Snow falls thick and fast on the window frame and newspaper crackles beneath their bodies like brushfire. Callused, ink-stained fingers skim the sides of his stomach as Alexander curls around him, catlike; he’s spark where Aaron’s shadow, and very nearly gentle when so he chooses. Aaron favors choice, chose the clothes on his back over his family’s good graces and this, Alexander above him. This, warm hands and cheap wine.

Alexander is the only person he knows who still gets the news in print to peruse in bed, starts each day already irate with the state of the world. Aaron imagines the ink staining the sheets, already loosed from their corners and ripped, Alexander whispers to him, in fingernail curves where lonely nights left their mark.

Aaron considers that. Alexander begs, then demands, grinds their hips together and forces his hand.

Alexander pins him by his neck to the bed and presses down, seething, inarticulate, head thrown back, the sheets an ocean around them. “Saint Theresa,” Aaron says, after.

Alexander’s lips purse. “Sacrilegious.”

“Italy.” Aaron kisses him, feels the reluctant smile grow. “I’ll take you some day.”

Because every story starts _in medias res_ : a red-haired boy in too-big clothes turns toward the sound of his name, called out across the street. Aaron surveys him, this transfer student, bounding over with a stack of books clutched to his chest. Confidently, even as he nearly drops them all in an effort to free one hand, extending it for a shake, “You must be Aaron Burr,” and immediately Aaron’s bowled over by it—the music of his voice.

“Alexander Hamilton,” he says. “I’m supposed to take you for coffee.”

Alexander Hamilton takes his coffee black. Alexander Hamilton talks with his hands like he’s conducting an orchestra, knocks Aaron’s latte into his lap and blushes red to his roots apologizing. “Don’t worry about it,” Aaron says. “Good thing I got iced.”

Alexander shoots him a grateful smile, and they settle back into their conversation. It’s largely one-sided, but Aaron can’t complain; he’s always preferred to listen. The other boy has just moved here from the islands, spent a few weeks in New York with family friends—well, not quite, the brother of a friend of a friend, someone who had helped him out after his mother—

“My parents passed away when I was young,” Aaron offers, the words rote at this point, but Alexander’s eyes widen with such earnest sympathy that he’s surprised to feel his breath tighten. The other boy’s knees—previously jiggling hard enough to make the table shake—settle down and press against his. Aaron looks down and then up again, startled.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I was only two. I barely knew them.”

“Still.” Alexander smiles at him again, and Aaron becomes keenly aware of the coffee stain drying on his jeans. His eyes cast around and land on the untidy pile of books.

“Knox was at my uncle’s place for dinner last week. He mentioned that you’re planning to apply for Princeton.”

Alexander sits up straighter in his seat. “That’s right.”

Aaron feels a grin split his face. “So am I.”

“Oh?” The other boy leans forward, mirroring his expression. “So we’ll be rivals, then.”

“You and me and half the student body at Elizabeth,” Aaron says. “It’s the best private school in the state. Everyone’s aiming to go Ivy.”

“Why Princeton for you, then, and not somewhere else?”

“My parents went there.” Aaron picks up his cup, remembers that it’s empty, drums his fingers on the side, his mouth dry. “And my grandfather was the president. Years ago.”

“Oh,” Alexander says again, toneless this time. “Are there a lot of people like that at your school?”

“Our school,” Aaron says. “And yeah, if by people like that you mean a bunch of undisciplined rich kids who snort study drugs but still couldn’t translate their way out of a paper bag. I saw you have Homer there—in _Greek?_ Old Livingston’ll love that. Dead languages are a huge thing at Elizabeth. Totally useless in the real world, you know, but you’ll be a hit with him, at least. And he knows all the Ivy admissions officers, so just stay on his good side.”

Alexander’s smile returns, eyebrows kicked up, and Aaron feels good, like he’s said the right thing somehow. “Speaking from personal experience?”

Aaron feigns chill, picks at his fingernails. “I _may_ have let a prank or two get out of hand in my day. Actually—no. I stand by all of it.”

The other boy looks skeptical but intrigued as he takes a sip. “Okay, now you have to tell me.”

“Well—back in sophomore year,” Aaron starts, liking the way Alexander’s eyes fix on him, “four of my friends and I got into the building through a side door before school started and zip-tied all the lockers. They suspended all of us and were considering expulsion, so a bunch of the other kids started wearing zip-ties around their arms in solidarity. There was a Facebook page and everything— _Free the Elizabeth Five._ ” Alexander spits out his coffee. “We got off with a warning,” Aaron continues, keeping his face serious, “but I think they were only pissed in the first place because we showed everyone how ridiculously easy it was to break in. They put security cameras around the side doors after that.”

“Well,” Alexander says after he stops laughing. “I guess you’re not just some trust fund baby who’s never done a day’s work.”

Aaron swipes the coffee cup from his hand, and the other boy lets him. “What makes you say that? You barely know me. I could still come to wildly disappoint you.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But—I mean, _all_ the lockers? That takes some serious discipline.”

Aaron grins into the cup. “Oh, I’m a cut above the rest.”

“Good,” says Alexander, stealing his cup back and settling into the stiff wooden seat like it’s a throne. “I like a little competition.”

Aaron looks at him, the sun slanting in on his red-gold hair, princely cheekbones, ambitious little pile of books, and thinks— _annuit coeptis_. God nods at things being begun.

“ _Mon cher, comment ça va_?”

“I would prefer if you use the formal _vous_ when speaking to me,” Alexander says without looking up from his notes.

Aaron drops his book bag and slides into the seat across from him, already delighted. “That’s cold, Hamilton.”

Alexander winces at the thump of the bag on the polished library floor. “Keep it _down_ , there are people studying here. Including _me_.”

“When’s the next French test again?”

“Thursday.”

“It’s _Monday_.”

Alexander’s eyes roll extravagantly at the ceiling. “Some of us have scholarships to maintain.”

Aaron laughs, turning heads in their direction. “That’s what I like about you,” he says, and lets the toe of his boot sneak along Alexander’s instep. The other boy jerks, his chair sliding back with a screech. “You’re always so _good._ ”

“Asshole,” Alexander breathes, unable to keep the smile entirely off his face. “You’re going to get us kicked out of the library.”

“You can study at my place.” Aaron grins back at him.

“Fat fucking chance. Your uncle hates me.”

“He hates everyone. Don’t take it personally.” Alexander snorts. “Anyway,” Aaron says, “I need help. I’m here to throw myself on your mercy.”

“What kind of help.”

“Like, _homework_ help. Get your head out of the gutter, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Don’t you think I have better things to do than tutor you?”

“I can pay you!”

“And now you’re just being rude.”

“Come on, man, I meant it. Madame won’t help me anymore. The last time I went to ask her a question, I somehow ended up talking about shaking infants. She kicked me out of the classroom.”

Alexander’s mouth presses into a line. “Maybe she’s just tired of you thinking that flirting with a teacher is an appropriate way of keeping your grades up.”

“I don’t flirt with Madame,” Aaron says, amused.

“You flirt with everyone.”

“Not _everyone_ —”

“Everyone,” Alexander says flatly.

Unsure how to respond, Aaron picks up the other boy’s pen and tries to balance it on his fingertip. “I happen to know you’re the best in the class. Speak like a native.”

“That’s because I grew up in the Caribbean, you idiot.” But Alexander looks mollified. “Fine.”

Aaron lets the pen clatter to the table and beams up at him. “When do we start?”

“Now. But not here. You’ll just cause a commotion and we’ll both get a lifetime ban. There’s a spot I like to study—” Alexander bites his lip. “It’s kind of weird. Down by the cemetery. It’s quiet there. I kind of just…pace back and forth.”

Aaron offers him the pen. “That’s on brand. And I love cemeteries.”

Alexander takes it, looking like he doesn’t want to be smiling. “ _Vous êtes prêt_?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Aaron tries.

“My God, you really are hopeless.” His classmate stuffs his notes into his backpack and stands up, Aaron following suit. “And you don’t need to pay me. I figure I still owe you for those pants I ruined.”

“I did like those a lot,” Aaron agrees. “I’m not even sure this makes up for it, frankly. That spill left an indelible stain on my soul.”

Alexander rolls his eyes and pushes him toward the door. “Let’s go read Rousseau to some dead people before I change my mind.”

“Are you familiar with the term _la petite mort_?”

“Jesus, who even _says_ things like that—”

In college he meets Jon, and Theodosia.

He thinks of them both sometimes, Jon’s earnest, well-timed texts and the kindness of his family; Theo’s brows pulling together as she marks papers in red pen, her favorite craft beers. From Theo he learns to skim, how to read deep enough to pull the key points from each text and fast enough that they always have time at the end of the day to curl up on her couch with C-SPAN, throwing trail mix at the bad speeches and making out during the boring ones. Her boyfriend lives in another state, and never comes to visit. Aaron can’t bring himself to care about some stranger Theo only ever talks about in the affectless tone she reserves for his constant absence; he loves her most laughing, calling him out on his inconsistent stances, or murmuring over a book, finger following her place on the page. He’s always been drawn, he thinks, to people’s voices.

From Jon he learns how much he likes being talked to in bed, rote and unpredictable at once, the way it starts: _I was up thinking about you._ Jon’s voice through the phone, low and warm, and the soft, insistent sound of rain. Aaron finds it easiest to express himself in the dark, letting the phone pick up his jagged breathing, Jon talking him through it, what to do with his hands. Jon’s voice in his ear, both of them tensing at every small movement from across the hall. Aaron revels in it, the exhilarating fear of fucking in the house Reverend Joseph Bellamy invited him into when campus closed for the winter (fatherly, pitying, knowing how unwelcome Aaron was in his own). Imagines getting caught like this, Jon pushing into him unbearably slow so the rustle of sheets won’t give them away. Digs his nails into the other boy’s back—learning he likes that too—and almost moans aloud at Jon’s steady, muted narration, promises of what he will do when they are truly alone again. Presses their mouths together and offers the only kind of prayer he finds he cares about these days— _please, Bell, harder, yes, more_ —to be swallowed up by the soundless dark.

In college, also, he meets Alexander. Again, and again, and again.

At a party in someone’s midtown penthouse, where the last kiss Alexander leaves on his mouth before going down on him tastes like cigarette smoke and the salt he licked off Dolley’s stomach half an hour ago.

At a lecture on the other boy’s campus, tens of students packed into the library lobby and the bright dart of red hair that has always caught his eye. Alexander’s gaze snaps onto his, and Aaron grins, slides his hands into his pockets and starts to saunter over, the banter already beginning in his mind: _stalking me are you— I just couldn’t stay away—_

In a dark, quiet corner on the eighth floor that night, after the stacks have closed to students, and “What is it with you and _libraries_?” Alexander says, then, head falling back against the shelves, “shit, oh, _fuck_ , just like—”

Aaron covers Alexander’s mouth with his free hand. “I like it better when you can’t talk,” he lies.

The other boy’s eyes narrow, then shut fervently. Satisfied, Aaron removes his hand and drops to his knees.

“It’s called Dante’s Laurels,” Alexander says faintly above him.

Aaron pulls his mouth off. “Are you having a stroke?”

“A challenge,” Alexander clarifies. “You have to follow the same order as the _Divine Comedy._ Tunnels for _Inferno_ , stacks for _Purgatorio,_ and roof for _Paradiso_ , all in the same day. Bonus points if it’s with three different people, but—”

Aaron tightens his grip on Alexander’s waist, presses him firm against the bookshelves. “But who else could you find, on such short notice?”

“You think I couldn’t?”

Aaron licks a stripe up the side of his cock and feels Alexander’s knees buckle. “I don’t think you _want_ to.”

“Your ego,” Alexander murmurs, running his fingers through Aaron’s hair and finding a grip, pulling back hard enough that Aaron’s eyes water. “ _Fuck,_ that’s good. Don’t stop—”

Quiet, Aaron wants to say, but doesn’t bother. Afterwards, he makes a show of wiping off his pants, and Alexander scowls. “God forbid we make Princeton royalty kneel on our dirty floors.”

“This is really a thing Columbia people do? _Dante’s Laurels?_ You think _my_ school is pretentious?”

“Does that mean you don’t want to do it?” Alexander says archly.

Aaron makes a show of checking his watch. “We’re only one for three and it’s already almost midnight. Should we have started with the tunnels?”

“Technically, but I’ll let you count it.”

“Oh, you’ll _let_ me,” Aaron breathes, and they don’t leave the stacks for a while longer.

“It’s more a title than a name, the way you wear it. Alexander the Great.”

“Hm. Does that make you Hephaestion?” Alexander stretches out in the bed beside him, contemplative, face turned toward the snow coming down outside. “The Patroclus to my Achilles?”

Aaron eyes him, this man whose instinct is always to cast others in supporting roles. “I thought I was the one with the Myrmidons, as you so charmingly nicknamed my friends back in school.”

“Would you prefer I call them the Elizabeth Five?”

Aaron groans. “Are you ever going to let go of—”

“The fact that you thought that story was cool enough to tell me the first time we met? Absolutely not.”

“You loved it.”

“Oh, what’s not to love,” Alexander says, rolling back onto his stomach and propping his chin on his elbow, “about a bunch of spoiled prep school boys thinking they’re _so bad_.”

Aaron feigns outrage. “And what’s the worst thing _you’ve_ ever done? Besides subject everyone to that hideously multisyllabic name and refuse to shorten it under any circumstances. Even for your _coffee order_ , Alexander.”

The other man shrugs, but his face turns serious. “Our names make us who we are.”

“I might flip that,” Aaron says. “We make our names our own, if there’s anything I’ve learned from watching you all these years.”

Alexander bites his lip, looking pleased. “I guess you’re not wrong. My name would have made me a nobody.”

“And look at you now. Here in bed with the disgraced former scion of mid-Atlantic elites.” Aaron pushes up on his forearms to press a kiss to his mouth, off-center. “What was it all for, then?”

“I’ve wasted my good looks and talents,” Alexander agrees dryly. “I could have married one of the literal princes we went to school with.”

“Oh, no princes, but at _least_ a lesser duke or something.”

Alexander laughs, then pauses, considering him for so long that Aaron has to resist the urge to look elsewhere. “Or maybe you’d style yourself an Odysseus,” he says finally, “clever, opportunistic, with a complicated homecoming.”

“I always wondered about him,” Aaron says. “He’s the only one of the main cast to make it back alive, right? But he finds little happiness, I think. Only divine intervention stops him from completely fucking up any chance of peace in Ithaca.”

Alexander nods absently, deep in thought, playing with a loose thread in the pillowcase. “None of the heroes were happy.”

“Good thing we have no such pretensions.” Aaron grins broadly at him, and Alexander’s sober look smooths out.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, but he’s smiling too as he lets Aaron push him onto his back, like for once he’ll subject himself to the flow of the other man’s whimsy—even as he continues to direct, breathlessly: there, _there_ , yes, faster, slower, a finely crafted semblance of control.

It’s pointless, Aaron thinks to himself, though Alexander has never been one to see the futility in things. Aaron has him all mapped out, every swath of freckles, every path to making him come apart, and every time he does, _Jesus, let me be the only one who can do that to him_ , the headiest thing Aaron could ask of the universe.


End file.
